It’s Been a Month

Twenty-six days ago, my father moved to a dementia care facility, following six weeks that included two falls (no injuries), two hospital stays, one night at an Enhanced Assisted Living facility and two tortuous weeks at a transitional care unit.

The experience has been a kaleidoscope of anger, anxiety, apprehension, changes of medication, chains of conversation, confusion, consolation, despair, doubt, dread, education, encouragement, exhaustion, fatigue, fear, frustration, gratitude, grief, guilt, heartbreak, helplessness, hope, panic, paperwork, permissions, teamwork, treatment plans, financial plans, aborted plans, whiskey, willpower, and wonder. And prayer.

It’s been a pervasive prowler lurking in my mind, pilfering headspace for all but the basics of getting through the day.

Eighteen days ago I walked full-speed, full-stride into an ash tree with a 108 inch waist – a tree that’s been rooted in the same spot since before we bought the property, a tree that I’ve walked around nearly every day since we bought the property – and did some painful, slow-healing damage to my right thumb and it’s supporting structures, literally, losing my grip.

The pain is decreasing, the strength is increasing, albeit slowly, and I’m learning to brush my teeth with my left hand. Ambidexterity is a beautiful thing.

Seems I’m on a smoother path now, though I’ll admit to adoption of a “hope for the best, prepare for the worst” attitude, and lucky for me, the basics of getting through the day include care of my favorite 4-leggeds, who are constant reminders of comfort of routine.

Prior to the escalated adventure in assisting aging parents, it’d been a season of infrastructure improvement here at Four Sticks Farm. House painting, deck staining and driveway replacement altered the usual and customary operations of our days.

During the months of modifications, Moe made a habit of letting himself on the middle pasture every night. He was able to pop the powered-off electric rope out of the clips on the fiberglass fence poles, allowing the line to sag low enough for him to lift his allegedly disabled back end up, over and into the paddock.

A private all-access pass to an all-you-can-eat, 24-hour buffet.

But his was a one-way ticket, so once in, he stayed in until I came down at feeding time and made him wait while Chicago got first dibs on the hay in the wheelbarrow. I’d open the pasture gate, he’d acknowledge the courtesy with a nod of the head and a gentle whicker, then walk up and move the Big Red Beast away from the wheelbarrow, which was not of any actual interest, as he’d spent the past several hours grazing on the good stuff, but the Head of the Herd has appearances to be maintained.

Since Chicago could be corralled with kite string, I’ve grown lax on the equine containment control measures, so beefed up the low spot by pounding in more fence poles with stronger clips, but still frequently woke to see the electrobraid popped out of the new poles, and the yellow gelding on the grass – rule following is not his priority.

A couple weeks ago we reached the part of our pasture program in which we close the paddocks to allow the roots to grow below ground rather than leaves to sprout above, and strict adherence to the No Admission policy was a must. Even for Moe.

So, commence implementation of Operation KEEP OFF THE GRASS – corroded cords replaced, corroded connections scraped, and the fencer powered on.

Order restored, routine recovered, with the simple flip of a switch.

With either hand.